“No; that was one of his intervals. He's not mad; he's just crazy.”
“Is there any difference, my dear?”
“Why, we're all crazy about something, you know; it's only a question of what.”
“But what is his what?”
“He's got a message. They're in the air, you know.”
“I haven't come across them,” said the old lady. “I fear I live a very quiet life—except for picking over sphagnum moss.”
“Oh, well! There's no hurry.”
“Well, I shall tell my nephew what I've seen,” said the old lady. “Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” responded the young; and, picking up her yellow book, she got back into the hammock and relighted her cigarette.